


by the river mersey i sat down and wept

by Anemoi



Category: Football RPF
Genre: Liverpool F.C., M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-30
Updated: 2018-05-30
Packaged: 2019-05-16 06:57:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,982
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14806523
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Anemoi/pseuds/Anemoi
Summary: aftermath of the ucl final.





	by the river mersey i sat down and wept

_ "you will never let go, you will never be satiated. _

_ You will be damaged and scarred, you will continue to hunger." _

  
  
  


-

  
  
  


Dejan runs for the medical room as soon as he’s changed.  
  


“Did you take a shower?” Mohamed says, nose wrinkled. Dejan stares at him until he smiles, mouth softening and his eyebrows lifting. He’s smiling but his eyes are tired. Dejan steps closer because he couldn’t quite help himself, hand already reaching out to cup Mohamed’s face. Maybe he thinks, inanely,  _ At least I can hold this,  _ mind flitting back to the trophy he walked past. The trophy with its white ribbons, pristine. His hands had ached with emptiness. 

Not now, though, Mohamed closing his eyes, leaning into his touch and his mouth set again, like he was keeping something balanced and still inside. There’s a notch of concentration in his forehead. Dejan wants to ask but finds he’s too afraid. He had never felt afraid for himself, this emotion new and terrifying in its newness, but for Mohamed- 

“I have to get an x-ray,” Mohamed says, opening his eyes. He looks at Dejan, a bit too knowingly. Then he pulls Dejan in and kisses him, pushing him away in the next breath.

Dejan has one hand on the door handle when Mohamed says, “I’ll see you in the summer.” 

Dejan couldn’t help it. He goes back to kiss Mohamed again. 

  
  


-

  
  


He slides in next to Virgil on the bus back to the hotel, Virgil moving a knee to accommodate him and nodding tiredly. The bus is muted the whole ride. Dejan feels it in his bones, the need to get away. They’re all pulling apart from each other already, unable to face each other, unable to face themselves.   
  


Virgil presses his hand wordlessly as he passes him in the hotel corridor. Dejan watches him catch up to Loris, swing an arm around him, their heads bent together. Then he lets himself back into the room he shared with Mohamed, not bothering to turn the light on. He waits for a minute with his back against the door, until his eyes adjusted themselves to the dark, and he could make his way through the room, arm outstretched like a blind man. 

They hadn’t remade Mohamed’s bed. The Do Not Disturb sign they hung on the door had still been there. Dejan doesn’t remember why they’d done it, probably some joke about Dejan’s mess, didn’t want to reach back through the haze of the match to the time before, just that thought -  _ the time before _ \- like an iron hand catching his lungs. He kicks off his shoes, sinks into the sheets, and draws up the blanket over his head. 

There’s nothing now but the soft hush of the air conditioning. Blurred through the wall he thinks he can hear the low mumble of conversation, Loris and Virgil, and imagines Virgil dispensing his steady, no nonsense comfort. He thinks about waiting for Mohamed to text, and stares at his phone for a while, but the screen remained dark.   
  


Mohamed’s sheets still smells like him. Dejan carries that thought into sleep. 

  
  


-

  
  


He wakes up sudden and blurry, heart hammering out of his chest. Then the feeling descends- the realization like a grey cloud casting shadow over his heart. Dejan groans, staggers out of bed, answers the wake-up call from the lobby five minutes later with a terse “I’m awake”, and opens the door to Jordan mid-knock. He glared at Jordan for a second before sighing, and Jordan cracks a smile as a reward.    
  
“Did you sleep? You have enough circles for a panda,” he says, gesturing at his eyes. 

“No,” Jordan says, ruefully. “Couldn’t.” He reaches out and squeezes Dejan’s shoulder, then, and Dejan lets him lean there for a second. It felt like Jordan was making sure he was still there. Dejan supposed this was exactly why he made a good captain, the way Jordan cared and carried on, ruthless to himself. 

“Are they up?” Jordan says, nodding at the door further down.

Dejan shrugs, “Not sure they slept.” 

Jordan goes to check, and Dejan goes back to finish up his morning routine. It’s only when he emerges from the bathroom, finally feeling awake and human enough, that he thinks to look at his phone. 

 

_ I am back in Liverpool  _

 

_ Are you still not awake???  _

 

_ Bored. Can’t drink coffee. Doctor says no :(  _

  
  


Dejan wanted to kick himself for not checking earlier. There were piles of other messages, consoling, pitying, some slightly gloating. Messages of encouragement he glances through, before he settles down to reply to Mohamed. Mohamed texts back almost immediately. He’s still in the hospital, running tests, waiting for specialist after specialist to check his shoulder. He’d slept on the plane, briefly, and yes, he’d eaten something,  _ Thanks Mom  _ with a dozen laughing tears emojis.   
  


Dejan felt briefly satisfied. But he was still afraid to ask, that old-new fear, some primal yet recently awakened thing, stirring in his chest as his hesitant fingers type in the question. 

_ Any results yet? _

It seems like an age before Mohamed replies.  
  


_ Not yet.  _

And then, 

_ Not looking good.  _

Dejan looks at it, three words twisting in his chest. Before he could reply his phone buzzes again, 

 

_ It’ll be okay don’t worry  _

  
  
  
  


-

  
  


On the plane he watches Loris sleep, curled over the tiny airplane table, Virgil on his other side snoring slightly, mouth open. They had finally given into exhaustion. Everyone was in their seats, frowning at their phones, or sprawled out asleep. Trent’s head rested on Andy’s shoulder, and Andy smiles slightly at Dejan watching. He mimes taking out his phone and filming, and they both laugh. 

He couldn’t fathom really doing it though, not now. The atmosphere in the plane compared to the one two days ago was funereal.  
  


Dejan leans back in his seat and shuts his eyes. Maybe if he really thought about it would hurt him too much to fathom, beat him down finally into the mud until he couldn’t get up anymore. But he was never good at that, dwelling in the darkest hour, letting go when it hurts. He knows a dark mood will still follow him, if not for months then weeks, until the world cup inevitably claimed too much of his attention. Football moves on; he knows, and so will he- eventually, eventually. So will they all. 

The sorrow after a loss is old by now, a familiar weight pressing on his eyes. And yet he’d still looked the reporter in the face and said,  _ we will come back. _

 

_ I promise you.  _

  
  


-  
  
  


Mohamed opens his door cautiously, eyes wide. He smiles when he sees Dejan, and Dejan feels all the exhaustion fall away from him. It felt like being caught out in the spring rain after training, the sweat and dirt and hurt in every muscle washed out. 

“Hi,” he says, and stops there because he doesn’t know what he was going to say. Why he was even here at all, instead of at home, in his own bed, sleeping off the weariness. Maybe he hadn’t wanted to sleep alone.   
  


“Dejan,” Mohamed says, and lets him inside.

  
  
  
  


“Do you still fast?” Dejan asks, settled on a kitchen stool and watching Mohamed pour him a glass of water carefully, left arm stiff and careful. Mohamed shook his head. 

“It’s okay. I don’t have to when I’m sick,” he says.

“You’re not wearing a sling,” Dejan says, nodding at his arm. 

Mohamed shrugs. “They took it off, it’s a sprain.”

Dejan watches him move, trying to discern if it hurt, until he couldn’t stop himself from just blurting, “Does it hurt?”

“Yes,” Mohamed says, not hesitating. He smiles at Dejan a little, as though to soften his honesty. Dejan wants to tell him to conserve his energy, inanely, stop spending affection when it was so clear he was tired. Mohamed had never been unsteady on his feet, but he seemed unmoored now. His hand shake a little, handing over Dejan’s glass. It spills over onto the table.

Dejan sets it down and walks around the kitchen island, reaching out his arms before realizing he didn’t know how to hold Mohamed, his shoulder still unprotected, exhaustion written into every line on his face. 

Mohamed looks at him a beat, amused, then gently drags his face down for a kiss. There’s still a careful space between them, crystallized.   
  


“I’m going to Spain tomorrow,” Mohamed says. “More doctors.”   
  


“Okay,” Dejan says. “What do you want to do now?”   
  


Mohamed yawns, wide. He doesn’t bother covering his mouth and Dejan heart stutters at the way his nose scrunches up, forehead wrinkled. “Sleep.” 

  
  


-

  
  


They lie side by side, as close as possible. It wasn’t as close as Dejan would like, because what he really wanted to do was to fold Mohamed into him, press them skin to skin and maybe forget, if only for a while, the black mood following him around. He could see it reflected in Mohamed’s face, both the want and the rueful helplessness, when Mohamed turns his head.   
  


“When will I see you,” Dejan mumbles. He’s just a man, after all. He can make no pretensions to what he wants.  


“In the summer,” Mohamed smiles. There’s steel in his voice when he says, “In the world cup.” 

 

Dejan just looks at him, then, tries to take it in. Mohamed keeps surprising him, in every way, even though by now he should expect it. He looked so peaceful, even in the middle of turmoil, dark eyes and soft curve of his mouth. He wants to fuck Mohamed, because who wouldn’t, just the planes and angles of his chest, his arm pressed to Dejan’s makes him think about it, incessantly. He wants it because Mohamed always goes so willingly, always laughing, wicked glint in his eye until Dejan wants to beg him but he’s always managed to hang on, if only till now.   
  


“We shouldn’t,” Dejan says instead, stretching his arms out to touch the headboard with the tip of his fingers. He looks at Mohamed again.   
  


“I know,” Mohamed sighs, not asking what he meant, shifting his shoulder carefully. He grins, the first proper grin in a while, and it chases back the shadow on his face a little bit. “But I can heal fast. I promise. The world cup.” 

 

“You promise?”

 

“A  _ hundred _ percent.” 

 

Dejan laughs out loud at that, the mental image of them sneaking around past their teammates. It’s weird to laugh. It feels like sacrilege, almost.   
  


He curls around Mohamed instead, and Mohamed slides their fingers together, drags Dejan’s hand up to his chest. He lets out a satisfied sigh, and falls asleep instantly, cat like. 

Dejan stays awake, out of sheer unwillingness to miss any second of Mohamed, until the tiredness drags on his eyelids and he succumbs. 

  
  


-

  
  


He leaves Liverpool the next day, glad, again, to be leaving. Everyone had summer plans, even if condensed into a few days before the world cup training begins. Dejan idly tries to recall who’s going where, but he supposed it was just the usual. Ibiza, Dubai, some beach with flat white sand and soothing waves, fields of any color that wasn’t red. 

 

Liverpool city falls away beneath him, and he catches a glimpse of a banner someone’s left up on a rooftop. It’s too far away to make out what it said, just yellow words and a yellow bird. A symbol of stubbornness maybe, and this he understands. The mersey winds down to the sea in a haze, wavelets glittering from the sunlight peeking through the clouds. 

 

He’ll be back soon enough, face going on again. It’s alright, for now, to hold on to some shards of hope, rattling like sparse change in his pocket. 

 

He texts Mohamed when the plane levels out,  _ Where are you now?  _ And settles down to wait, knowing it wouldn’t take too long. 

  
  


**Author's Note:**

> i wrote about a bajillion different bits of fic from everyone's point of view in my sad haze post-final, the words not making sense, just compulsions i followed bc it hurt too much to keep it in. predictably dejan/mo stuck bc i wrote them most recently. i wish i couldve managed a rousing stirring fic to make sense of things and steer a way forward, but i dont think its possible. sometimes we just live with the hurt, hoping it stops hurting soon.
> 
> The opening italics are from the Seven Ages, by Louise Glück
> 
> thank you for reading. ynwa <333


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